Grasping the Blades of Books

I’ve wondered about these things as many have beforeYour hair the windblown clouds smudging the skyYour face hiding but shaping the shy lightIf I had to kiss one part it would be your cheekWith my love made of otters in mudIf I had to eat one part it would be your lipsWith my hunger made of passing trainsWithout a country or vassals I hum to my feudal selfYour neck full of dahlias and delicate frillsNot altogether lacking in intellect of courseA happy carbuncle polisheden cabochonThe gothic lexicon long in the pocket of my highwayman’s coatYour seahorse’s tail grasping the blades of booksThe current further exhorting the bland to a noisy crashWe could join hands but demurAnd let it all pass